(wildly) – It's not true. I never lived like that. I never took a drink in my life. You can ask anybody. Nobody ever saw me take a drink.
DR. CONY – That's bad. You solitary drunkards are always the hardest to handle. But you've simply got to stop. You must quit drinking or die, that's all there is to it.
COTTONTAIL – This is terrible. It must have been that poisoned sword. I tell you, I was just sitting here quietly, reading The Evening Post—
DR. CONY – My dear sir, please rid yourself right away of the alcoholic's habit of confusing cause and effect. He thinks he's sick because green elephants are walking on him, while, as a matter of fact, green elephants are walking on him because he's sick. It's terribly simple, when you stop to figure it out.
COTTONTAIL – You don't think I saw any pink monster come through the ceiling?
DR. CONY – On the contrary, I'm sure you did. But the point is, you mustn't see him again, and the only way to avoid seeing him is to quit drinking. Your fun's done. Now, be a good patient and tell me you'll stop drinking —
COTTONTAIL – I tell you I never had any fun. I never had any fun —
DR. CONY – Well, strictly speaking, it isn't the fun that hurts you, it's the rum. You must stop, even if you hate the stuff. Do you understand?
COTTONTAIL (hysterical) – I can't stop, I can't stop; I never started, I can't stop —
DR. CONY – Very well, sir, I must insist on taking the only measure that will save your life. (He steps to the door and calls) Mrs. Cottontail, will you come here immediately?
(Enter Mrs. Cottontail.)
COTTONTAIL – My dear —
DR. CONY – If you please, madame. Let me explain first. You can have it out with your husband later. I'm sorry to tell you, Mrs. Cottontail, that your husband has gout. He has contracted it from excessive drinking. You knew, of course, that he was a heavy drinker?
MRS. COTTONTAIL (surprised, but not in the least incredulous) – I couldn't go so far as to say I knew it.
DR. CONY – He must stop or he'll die.
COTTONTAIL (rapidly and wildly) – I can explain everything, my dear. The doctor's all wrong. The whole trouble is somebody pulled the roof off the other day and stabbed me with a poisoned sword. I was right here in this room. I was just quietly reading The Evening Post. I knew no good would come of our moving into this new apartment house, with its fancy wire and green paint and free food, and all the rest of it.
DR. CONY (to Mrs. Cottontail, who aids him in ignoring the patient) – You can see for yourself, madame, just how rational he is. I leave him in your care, Mrs. Cottontail. Don't let him out of your sight. Try and find out where he gets his liquor. If he pleads with you for a drink, be firm with him. Follow him everywhere. Make him obey. It won't be hard in his enfeebled condition. I'll be around to-morrow. (To Cottontail) Remember, one drink may be fatal.
(Exit Dr. Cony.)
COTTONTAIL – My dear, it was a pink monster, with an enormous dagger. It lifted off the ceiling —
MRS. COTTONTAIL – Peter, can't you even be temperate in your lies?
COTTONTAIL (sinking helplessly in his chair) – My dear, I was just sitting quietly, reading The Evening Post—
MRS. COTTONTAIL – You brute! I always had a feeling you were too good to be true.
COTTONTAIL (feebly and hopelessly) – I was just sitting, reading The Evening Post (his voice trails off into nothingness. He sits motionless, huddled up in the chair. Suddenly he speaks again, but it is a new voice, strangely altered.) Mopsy, give me The Sun.
MRS. COTTONTAIL (looking at him in amazement) – What do you say?
COTTONTAIL (His muscles relax. His eyes stare stupidly. He speaks without sense or expression) —The Sun! The Sun! The Evening Sun!
(He is quite mad.)
Death Says It Isn't So
THE scene is a sickroom. It is probably in a hospital, for the walls are plain and all the corners are eliminated in that peculiar circular construction which is supposed to annoy germs. The shades are down and the room is almost dark. A doctor who has been examining the sick man turns to go. The nurse at his side looks at him questioningly.
THE DOCTOR (briskly) – I don't believe he'll last out the day. If he wakes or seems unusually restless, let me know. There's nothing to do.
He goes out quietly, but quickly, for there is another man down at the end of the corridor who is almost as sick. The nurse potters about the room for a moment or two, arranging whatever things it is that nurses arrange. She exits l. c., or, in other words, goes out the door. There is just a short pause in the dark, quiet room shut out from all outside noises and most outside light. When the steam pipes are not clanking only the slow breathing of the man on the bed can be heard. Suddenly a strange thing happens.
The door does not open or the windows, but there is unquestionably another man in the room. It couldn't have been the chimney, because there isn't any. Possibly it is an optical illusion, but the newcomer seems just a bit indistinct for a moment or so in the darkened room. Quickly he raises both the window shades, and in the rush of bright sunlight he is definite enough in appearance. Upon better acquaintance it becomes evident that it couldn't have been the chimney, even if there had been one. The visitor is undeniably bulky, although extraordinarily brisk in his movements. He has a trick which will develop later in the scene of blushing on the slightest provocation. At that his color is habitually high. But this round, red, little man, peculiarly enough, has thin white hands and long tapering fingers, like an artist or a newspaper cartoonist. Very possibly his touch would be lighter than that of the nurse herself. At any rate, it is evident that he walks much more quietly. This is strange, for he does not rise on his toes, but puts his feet squarely on the ground. They are large feet, shod in heavy hobnail boots. No one but a golfer or a day laborer would wear such shoes.
The hands of the little, round, red man preclude the idea that he is a laborer. The impression that he is a golfer is heightened by the fact that he is dressed loudly in very bad taste. In fact, he wears a plaid vest of the sort which was brought over from Scotland in the days when clubs were called sticks. The man in the gaudy vest surveys the sunshine with great satisfaction. It reaches every corner of the room, or rather it would but for the fact that the corners have been turned into curves. A stray beam falls across the eyes of the sick man on the bed. He wakes, and, rubbing his eyes an instant, slowly sits up in bed and looks severely at the fat little man.
THE SICK MAN (feebly, but vehemently) – No, you don't. I won't stand for any male nurse. I want Miss Bluchblauer.
THE FAT MAN – I'm not a nurse, exactly.
THE SICK MAN – Who are you?
THE FAT MAN (cheerfully and in a matter of fact tone) – I'm Death.
THE SICK MAN (sinking back on the bed) – That rotten fever's up again. I'm seeing things.
THE FAT MAN (almost plaintively) – Don't you believe I'm Death? Honest, I am. I wouldn't fool you. (He fumbles in his pockets and produces in rapid succession
